Whiskey Ain't the Only Fix
by aloriahfrey
Summary: The apocalypse has demolished everything, including everything Rick and Daryl hold dear. With only the instinct to survive and a taste for reckless behavior, how will these two men cope in this new world together?
1. Bullets

**A/N: **I've never done a full length fic before, but I love this pair more than anything and I wanted to explore a world where all they have is each other. There will be talk of suicide and a few darker themes throughout the story, but there will also be Rick and Daryl behaving like drunk teenagers, hope, and an eventual love and bond that only the end of the world can create. Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

Confusion and a small fraction of hope were the only reasons Rick Grimes made it out of the hospital. That and the instinct to survive that came with years of police work. Without those things he might have just been paralyzed with fear at the sights before him.

He didn't understand the world around him. It was like some horrible nightmare that made him wonder if maybe he was still in a coma, just lying back in that hospital bed.

Nothing was what it had been the day he'd gotten shot on the job. Cynthiana, Kentucky was in ruins and it seemed as though he was the only one left alive. Somewhere in the back of his mind he absently wondered if he was the only one—if the rest of the world had wasted away and he was the only man left wandering this wasteland.

Rick stopped those thoughts in their tracks, knowing he couldn't afford to think that way. He had to believe that Carl and Lori were okay. He had to find them alive and well at home or there was no way he could go on. If this horror had touched them—if it had taken them down with the rest of the town—then there was no reason left for Rick to survive.

His hands shook and his heart hammered painfully as he stumbled up the steps of his house. Half of him didn't even want to go inside, too afraid of what he might find, but he clung to that little shred of hope that the two people he loved most in the world could be okay. It was that last shred of optimism that allowed him to push open the front door, but as he did he felt that shred be ripped away like his heart being torn from his body.

Nothing could ever prepare him for this. No amount of training or inner strength could keep him from breaking at this point. Instantly, within the second it took to open his front door, he felt his whole world shatter around him and his legs give out from underneath him.

Rick hit the floor hard, the pain in his knees barely registering, as he muttered to himself, "Is this real?"

It couldn't be real. Surely he was still in a coma and this was just some morbid dream, because there was no way he could exist in a universe where his wife and son were dead. It wasn't possible.

A numb haze settled over him as he stared at the gruesome image of his child and the love of his life decaying on the once pristine living room floor. There was blood everywhere and the smell...it was all wrong. He couldn't process it.

Time was irrelevant in that moment and so he had no clue how long he kneeled there. He also didn't know what finally made him get to his feet, but as he crossed the room in a daze he found a note lying on the coffee table. His name scrawled in Lori's handwriting across the top.

The note was short and simple, but it made no sense to Rick. The words didn't add up in his head and he read it over and over, trying to decipher it.

_Rick,_

_I am so sorry. I wanted nothing more than to protect our son, but I couldn't. He was bitten and I did what I had to do. I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you, but I just couldn't go on without our little boy. I love you and although part of me hopes you see this, the rest of me hopes you never will. Goodbye._

_With all the love in my heart,_

_Lori_

What did it mean? What did she mean when she said Carl was "bitten"? Why in a million years would this ever be the only option she had?

There was a piece of Rick that wanted to figure out the answers to all the questions running through his head. However, there was another part of him that wanted to pick up the gun lying at his wife's side and put a bullet into his own brain.

He didn't know what the hell had happened while he'd been asleep in that hospital, but if it had taken his family from him then he wasn't sure he wanted to know. This was enough reality for him.

Rick was unaware of how long he stood there staring at that note, but eventually he finally moved to pick up the pistol. He checked it, finding four more bullets waiting for him to make up his mind.

* * *

Daryl hadn't really intended to go to Kentucky, but he figured it was just as good as any other place. It wasn't like he actually had a destination in mind; he was just walking and surviving until he couldn't do it anymore. He figured he'd wind up in a herd of walkers or starve to death eventually and that would be the world's way of telling him his little adventure was over.

As much as the whole apocalypse thing sucked, he was finding out how to make the best of it. When the government no longer existed and the only concern he had was survival, he found he actually excelled at something for once. He could hunt better than most people and he didn't have any emotional attachments to drag him down. Sure, losing his brother had been rough, but they'd never really been all that close anyway.

It was funny though…Merle was kind of his motivation those days. When he felt like giving up and just ending himself, he heard his brother's voice in his ear, taunting, "Just gonna give up, lil' brother? You that much of a bitch now?"

Suicide didn't seem like the way to go that day though. Daryl was pretty optimistic, having just picked up a couple of rabbits before stumbling across the town he was wandering through now.

Cynthiana looked like a pretty small place and he didn't imagine he'd bump into too many walkers. The place was basically a ghost town, torn to shreds with the truly dead lying all over the streets.

Daryl fucking despised walkers. He wasn't really afraid of them as long as there weren't too many, but they made him sick to his stomach. He was a firm believer that what was dead should stay dead and cannibalistic corpses wasn't exactly his ideal way for the world to come to an end. Watching them shuffle around aimlessly, groaning for human flesh…it freaked him the hell out.

They could be fun to kill though. He'd perched on top of a building more than once, snacking on whatever he had managed to scrounge up and passing the time by seeing how many walkers he could put down with one shot.

Today was no different. The only thing on his agenda was searching for supplies and killing whatever came his way. He might stop for a drink or a smoke somewhere if he could get lucky enough to score some whiskey or a pack of cigarettes.

For once he was feeling lucky as he made his way into downtown, seeing how many buildings there were to scour, but as he turned into the main street that mood dwindled. He should have figured this was where he'd run into trouble and he glared at the small herd of the undead that were wandering around and coming between him and potential supplies.

He stepped back from the street, sliding up against the wall of the closest building and formulating a plan. He'd have to sneak, but he could definitely make it in and out of some of the shops without drawing attention to himself. His only real problem would be his scent, but if he was quick enough they might not catch it.

Deciding to start with the shop he was pressed against, he carefully moved forward, slinking around the side of the building and making a swift, silent dash for the door. He kept his eyes planted on the walkers as best he could, glowering at the only one that bothered to glance in his direction.

After making it inside without any problems, he found himself at the front of what was obviously a sports store. He smiled at that, deciding there were definitely worse places to start. He could already spot a few things that could be useful as he made his way further inside.

Daryl didn't take long, only grabbing what he really needed and heading back to the front. He was never the type to tempt fate and wanted to make this little escapade as quick as possible.

The plan was to slip back outside unnoticed, but that idea was stunted as the front door come into view. He looked through the glass to see the herd beginning to press in on it and rolled his eyes, deciding he was blaming the bastard that had been watching him on his way in.

"Undead dicks," he sighed, flipping off the walker with its face pressed against the door, rotted teeth gnashing hungrily.

It wasn't too much of a setback. There had to be a back way out—there always was in places like that—and so he went to find it. It didn't take more than a minute considering how small the store was, but he still let out an aggravated stream of curses when he reached his destination.

"Ya gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me. Did one of 'em ring the damn dinner bell or somethin'?"

Okay, so the mass of the undead trying to force their way through the back was one hell of a setback. That wasn't going to stop him though, because Daryl Dixon always had a plan C. This time his plan C involved finding his way to the roof and praying for a fire escape, but if it came down to it he figured he could just lay low and wait it out. They'd move on once they decided there was nothing there for them.

But as he went to start his search for a way upstairs, he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of walkers starting to drop dead one after another at the back door. Someone was outside shooting them down and that thought made Daryl a hell of a lot more leery than hiding out on a roof for the next few hours.

* * *

Rick didn't know why he was helping whoever the idiot was that had gotten himself locked into the local sports goods store. Maybe it was because he'd decided not to use the gun on himself and decided he needed to use it on something. Either way he was wasting ammo, which he didn't have a whole lot of (he'd grabbed the small stash he kept at home along with the gun he kept there as well).

He didn't bother stopping though. He took out the majority of whatever the hell those things were swarming the building and watched as the tall, rugged man burst through the door, stabbing an arrow into the skulls of the remaining corpses.

Once they were all down the stranger didn't hesitate to raise his crossbow, pointing it directly at Rick and calling in a low, husky voice, "Who're you?"

"My name's Rick Grimes," he called back, lowering his gun in an attempt to diffuse the situation. "I'm a—well, I was a local sheriff's deputy."

"Oh great. Haven't seen another face in ages and the first one I come across if a fuckin' cop." The man scoffed and sized him for a moment before lowering his crossbow. "We should probably get outta here before the other walkers start comin' this way."

"Walkers? S'that what ya call those things?" Rick hadn't known what to call them short of "corpses". He still didn't understand what was happening—why the dead were walking the city—but he had put a few pieces of the puzzle together.

They were heading back the way Rick had come now, walking a safe distance from each other and watching one another cautiously.

"What else am I gonna call 'em?" the man spat back.

This guy was all pent-up rage and prickly walls—just looking at him made Rick want to draw back before he got punctured. Still, he couldn't say he wasn't happy to see someone else walking around that wasn't rotted and groaning.

"Hell, I dunno…I was in coma from a gunshot wound and I woke up to all of this." He gestured around them, to the general chaos of things, and continued, "Last thing I knew I was on a chase with my partner and then I come to this morning and…"

"This mornin'? Are you shittin' me?"

Rick shook his head and the other man's eyes widened considerably. "God damn…how are you even still alive?"

"Why? I mean…how long has all of this been goin' on?" Rick hadn't really been able to fit together a timeline for all this just yet.

"Shit went global about a month ago—tha's when it all really went to hell."

A month? He'd been out longer than a month? He shuddered as he remembered the horrid smell and the starting of decay to his family's bodies, but he quickly pushed those thoughts aside. If he had any chance of surviving he would have to block that out.

"What…what happened?" he asked, trying very hard to wrap his mind around it all and failing miserably.

"Some kind of disease or somethin'. Made people real sick, burnt 'em out with a fever. They didn't stay dead though—started comin' back as walkers and feedin' on people."

Rick's stomach churned and he shook his head as he muttered, "Feeding on people?"

He was bitten and I did what I had to do. The words flashed through his mind against his will and he felt a wave of red hot, crippling rage as he figured out exactly what had happened to his son.

He stopped in his tracks, his breath becoming shallow and his jaw tightening. Carl…his little boy, the most important thing in his entire world, had been forced to die so that he wouldn't become one of those monsters. And Lori…

"Ya alright, man?" the stranger asked, his words barely registering in Rick's head at first.

He shook his head, bending over and placing his hands on his knees as he tried to settle the sick feeling in his stomach. "My son…"

Rick didn't see the man's face as he spoke, but he could hear the pity in his voice as he sighed, "Oh, shit…"

They waited in silence for a long moment while Rick tried to pull himself together. By all means he should just go back home and die with his family, but he was a survivor and there was a stubborn streak in him that even in that moment said he was going to stay alive through this. He just had to shut down—let go of his emotions and the memories that threatened to haunt him. He had to become an animal, running solely on survival instinct.

When he had finally settled back into the numbness that he'd found previously, he stood up straight and studied the man standing next to him. The word "redneck" was written all over him and Rick was pretty sure he was the kind of guy that could handle an apocalypse with a surprising amount of finesse.

"What's your name?" he asked, mainly to distract himself.

"Daryl."

"Well, Daryl…whataya say you and I go check out the police station and stock up on some ammo?" Rick didn't trust this guy, not even the slightest bit, but he really didn't want to go off on his own just yet. The last thing he needed was to be all alone with nothing but his traitorous thoughts.

Daryl shrugged, not seeming to care what they did, and agreed, "Sure, why not? Ain't got nothin' else to do with my time."

"Okay then. Just don't try anything funny, 'cause I'm not above puttin' a bullet in your head. We clear on that?"

"As long as you're clear on the fact that I ain't above puttin' an arrow in yours."

Rick smirked like that and tucked his gun into its holster. "Well, alright. Looks like we understand each other."


	2. Reality

Showering at the station was nothing new to Rick. He'd done it plenty of times before when he had long nights and didn't want to make too much noise getting home. However, his new companion didn't seem as comfortable with the idea.

Daryl was incredibly fidgety as Rick showed him where to go and as they reached their destination he grunted, "I can wait. Go 'head."

The deputy didn't argue, deciding the idea of being unarmed in a room with this guy probably wasn't the best idea anyway. He'd be more comfortable knowing Daryl was outside the room and that he had plenty of time to get to his gun if necessary.

As wonderful as it was to get cleaned up, Rick made it quick. He wanted to get his guns and get out. Of course, he had no clue where he'd go once he did that, but he knew that he had to keep moving. It would kill him if he stayed in one place.

There was already an agreement set between him and Daryl that they'd go their own way after this, neither of them wanting to bother with attachments or liabilities.

When Rick was finished he walked out wearing his uniform, preferring it to the casual and loose clothes he'd shown up in. He didn't miss the little roll of Daryl's eyes, but he decided it was better not to comment on it.

"It's all yours. I'll go get the guns around."

Daryl simply nodded and moved past him. He didn't seem to be one for talking—only when it was really necessary or to bitch about the "filthy, diseased-bearing, motherless, poxy bastards" that he called walkers.

The armory definitely wasn't a disappointment. It had been raided, that much was obvious, but there was still plenty left over. Rick loaded up what he was taking for himself into one of the police duffel bags, and then began preparing another for Daryl.

It wasn't long before they were standing outside in the Kentucky sun again, their separate vehicles hotwired and packed up. It was time to say goodbye to the last faces they might see for a long while and Rick found himself much more hesitant to do so than he expected.

"Where you gonna go?" he asked Daryl, genuinely curious if the other man had more of a plan than he did.

"Hell if I know. Probably just gonna drive 'til I run outta gas, and then walk from there. See what I run into."

Rick nodded. "Yeah…that's about the only plan I got, too. You been through Atlanta?"

"Sure have and I wouldn't recommend it. Place is fuckin' swarming with those dead bastards." There was a distinct darkening to his eyes as he spoke that said his experience there had been somewhat of a nightmare.

Rick sighed, running a hand through his hair and chewing at his lip. He truly had no clue where to go from there, but there was an idea forming in his mind that was growing more appealing every second.

"Daryl…you know a hell of a lot more about all this than I do," he admitted, glancing over towards the car that was waiting for him. "What would ya think about stickin' together for a little bit longer?"

"That depends…how much longer you thinkin'?"

Shrugging, Rick shifted his gaze back to Daryl. "A day or so? Just long enough to get away from here and for me to get my bearings."

He'd never say it in quite these words, but he was genuinely scared about going off on his own into this new and horrifying world. It was comforting to think of someone with more experience having his back until he got his head straight.

Daryl scratched at the back of his neck and kicked at the gravel under his feet as he thought on it. "Two days tops. And I ain't your babysitter."

"Grab your stuff, we'll take the cruiser," Rick instructed, watching as the other man gathered what little possessions he had. "Oh, and Daryl?"

"What?"

A small smirk formed on the deputy's lips as he finished, "Call me a baby again and I'll cuff you to the car and leave you there."

* * *

Riding in the front of a police car was fucking weird as far as Daryl was concerned. He'd been in the back of one a time or two, but this was definitely new.

The past four and a half hours had been pretty quiet, the CD they'd put in playing as more of an excuse for the silence than for their actual desire to listen to music. It wasn't that Daryl minded Rick—he actually seemed like an alright guy—but he just didn't see the point in getting to know each other. Within forty-eight hours they'd be separating and that was the way it should be.

They'd said a total of maybe five sentences each by the time the nearly five hour drive into Georgia landed them in Cohutta with an empty tank of gas. So far all Daryl knew about the guy next to him was that his kid was dead, he was a cop that had gotten shot on the job, and that he too was just wandering aimlessly.

They ditched the cruiser, pulling their bags out of the back and staring around at the small, rural town they'd wound up in.

"Ain't nothin' but trees," Daryl mused, not completely dissatisfied with that. Lots of trees generally meant a good amount of game to hunt.

"Think all of these houses are empty?" Rick wondered. It was a legitimate question. In a place this far in the country it wasn't too farfetched to think that some of the residents might have stuck around. The walker population would be low and there would be other places to go on runs for supplies not too far away.

"Wanna find out?" Daryl smirked at his companion and Rick cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Why are you smilin' at me like that?"

He snickered and shook his head, walking past Rick and calling, "You comin' or not?"

Truth was that one of his favorite freedoms of the apocalypse was raiding houses. It wasn't necessarily the breaking and entering or the stealing that he enjoyed, although that was kind of liberating. What he really like about it was looking at the fragments of life left behind—the signs that life before the end of the world had existed. Each house held something unique and had its own story.

When they came up on the first house it was fairly obvious that it was empty right off the bat. The door was wide open, none of the windows were barricaded, and there wasn't a single sound coming from inside.

Still, Daryl readied his crossbow as they entered it, moving cautiously into the living room. The place looked untouched, family photos still on the walls and to Daryl's delight, a pack of cigarettes lying on the coffee table by the astray.

"Looks like they took off in a hurry," he observed, moving to grab the smokes and tucking them into the front pocket of his shirt.

Rick was behind him, gun drawn, and he agreed, "Yeah…I'm gonna do a sweep upstairs, see if anyone is hiding out."

Daryl nodded and continued on into the kitchen as Rick headed up the stairs. He found that room left in the same state of surprising normalcy as the first. There was mail and a couple of gossip magazines on the table and photos of the family that had lived there on the fridge.

He lowered his bow, taking one the pictures down and examining it. A charming redheaded women smiled back at him from the arms of a tall, dark haired man. A little boy stood in front of them, his mother's hand entwined lovingly in his ginger hair.

They looked genuinely happy—not like one of those families that fake it for photos and then come home to fight for the rest of the night.

"Place seems clean," Rick said as he entered the kitchen, pulling Daryl from his thoughts. "What's that?"

"The people that lived here. Whataya think? Doctor? Lawyer? Cop?"

Rick leaned over his shoulder, studying the photo and chuckling, "Definitely not a cop. Looks like he spent too much time with his family for that."

"Vet, maybe?" Daryl placed the picture back on the fridge. "He's got that look, ya know?"

"What look?"

"Same look you got. That 'hero' thing."

"'That hero thing'? What does that even mean?" Rick moved across the kitchen, picking up the mail and rifling through it.

"Dunno, just…somethin' ya'll got in your eyes."

The other man frowned at that, narrowing his eyes at Daryl for a moment before turning back to the envelopes in his hands. "You're right, by the way. Vet."

He tossed something at Daryl, which turned out to be papers about health insurance through the animal clinic that the guy had worked at.

Daryl smirked and threw the papers back on the table before he began searching the cabinets. When he stumbled across the liquor cabinet he let out a loud whoop that made Rick jump behind him.

"Damn! Hit the jackpot here!" he exclaimed, pulling out a half full bottle of Jack Daniels. "Smokes and whiskey—we picked the right place. Guess Mister Veterinarian had some vices."

"Looks like someone else does, too," Rick pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah. It's the end of the world, don't patronize me for bein' a smoker or I'll kick your ass."

He could tell the deputy was about to shoot back some witty retort, but it was silenced when they heard a sudden and disturbingly loud thump from above their heads.

Within a matter of seconds they both had their weapons readied and were heading for the stairs.

"Thought you said it was clear up there!" Daryl hissed as quietly as he could manage, following Rick to the second floor.

"It was!"

"Well, obviously not. Did ya check the closets?"

When Rick didn't reply Daryl knew what the answer was and just scoffed. "Damn, guess you do need a babysitter."

They split up, searching the three rooms. Daryl covered the master bedroom while Rick headed to a smaller one at the end of the hall.

What Daryl imagined was the parents' bedroom turned out to be clear, even after he checked the closet and bathroom. However, it didn't seem like Rick had as much luck.

"Son of a bitch!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "Daryl!"

Daryl sprinted down the hall, coming to a quick stop in the doorway of the smallest room. It only took a second for him to realize what the source of Rick's distress was and as he saw it his stomach gave a nauseating lurch.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he muttered as he stared into the dead, hungry eyes of the little boy from the picture.

Glancing at his companion he could tell there was no way Rick was going to be able to handle this. He had frozen up, his body stiff and his eyes wide. His hand shook as it gripped his gun tightly.

"Rick? Rick, man, go downstairs. I got this."

When the other man shook his head, Daryl groaned and slowly reached for the gun. "C'mon. You don't gotta do this—I can handle it."

"No."

That was all he said before the gun was going off, sending Daryl jumping back into the doorway and staring at the little boy in shock. There was a bullet between his eyes as he fell to the floor, truly lifeless now.

"Rick?" he muttered, afraid the guy was about to go off the deep end and shoot himself or Daryl, too. He was still rigid and his eyes were almost dead as the child's had been.

But just as Daryl was about to get really nervous he saw Rick's gun hit the floor, followed by Rick himself only a second later. He no longer looked frozen. In fact, he was quite the opposite. There was a steady stream of tears rolling down his face and his shoulders shook with heavy sobs.

He was whimpering something under his breath, something Daryl couldn't quite catch at first, but as he inched forward he heard the one word Rick was chanting like a mantra.

"Carl."


	3. Freedom

The bottle of whiskey felt strange in Rick's hand. He'd never been the type to drink straight from the bottle, but he figured there was a first time for everything.

He was still sitting on the floor of the child's bedroom as he tipped it back, sucking down some of the harsh liquid inside and leaning back against the open door.

"Ain't really a cure, but it'll get ya off that floor after a few swigs," Daryl sighed as he threw a sheet over the kid's body.

Rick just nodded, not sure what there was to say. There wasn't any amount of alcohol that could get the image of Lori putting a bullet in his son's head out of his mind without killing him in the process. Honestly, that didn't seem like such a bad idea as he took another drink. There was a lot more liquor downstairs, surely enough to do him in.

"You should go, Daryl," Rick decided, glancing up at the other man with a look of resignation.

"Go? Whataya mean I should go?" Daryl frowned at him, turning away from the body and focusing on Rick. "And just leave ya here to drink yourself to death?"

Another simple nod was all that was needed, so that's what Rick settled for.

"Nah, I don't think so. C'mon, Sheriff, get off yer ass."

Rick didn't protest as Daryl hoisted him up. He didn't have it in him to argue at the moment. The only thing he wanted to do was drink until he couldn't think anymore, but considering Daryl was now taking the bottle from his hand that plan was being tampered with.

He made a grab for the liqour, but the hunter dodged him and took a step back. "Uh-uh. Ya ain't bailing out, not today."

"Why the fuck do you care?" Rick snapped, a sudden rush of rage moving through him. Who the hell did this guy think he was, telling Rick what to do? "Two days tops, remember? As far you know I'll just go blow my brains out as soon as you're gone."

Daryl didn't like that. Rick could see it in the flash of anger in his eyes. But that just fueled the fire burning to life inside of him and he continued, "My family is dead! The whole god damn world is dead! Why the hell shouldn't I be dead, too? Why am I still here?!"

He didn't fucking want to be there anymore. This life was a god damn nightmare and he just wanted it to end. He wanted to be back in the hospital in that coma where he didn't know that his wife and child were gone.

"I lost family, too, man. I didn't have a kid, so I can't imagine how that feels, but don't for one fuckin' second think you're the only one who's been through some bad shit." Daryl stepped closer to him now, eyes locked on Rick in a stern gaze. "Now, drink as much of this bottle as you've gotta to get your shit together, but after that we're gettin' the fuck outta here and to hell with that two days bullshit. I ain't lettin' the only living person I've seen in two damn months die on me. Not today."

With that he shoved the bottle back into Rick's hand and pushed past him, stomping down the stairs and putting his crossbow back into place at his back.

* * *

Daryl tried to be patient as he waited on Rick, but that wasn't really his greatest strength. Honestly, he knew it wasn't his business if the guy just wanted to give up and he probably shouldn't care if Rick did, but that didn't change anything. He meant what he'd said upstairs and he wasn't going to let Rick die.

For two months he'd wandered around on his own wondering if he'd ever see another living face again. When Rick had come barreling into his life, gun blazing, he'd been leery, but he'd also felt some level of relief. Relief at knowing there were others out there, that the human race hadn't been wiped out completely.

No, he didn't want attachments and he sure is hell didn't want to be responsible for anyone but himself, but he'd be a liar if he said he didn't want someone else around for a while.

Of course he wasn't going to tell Rick that. As far as the deputy was concerned, Daryl was just going to let him think that he was on a rescue mission; that he didn't have anything better to do than make sure Rick didn't off himself.

By the time Rick made it downstairs it was obvious that he was shitfaced. The bottle in his hand was nearly empty and he swayed as he walked into the kitchen, grasping the edge of the counter and mumbling, "So I guess I'm gonna live for another day. Don't see why I shouldn't."

"Good. Hope you're not too fucked up to hunt down another car, 'cause we ain't stayin here." They needed to put this place and what had happened there behind them if Rick had any chance at getting past the rut he was in.

Daryl finished packing up what supplies he'd scrounged up and tossed a bag to Rick, chuckling as he fumbled with it awkwardly and somehow managed to sling it over his shoulder.

"Is there alcohol in either of these bags?"

"There is in mine." Daryl shot him a cheeky grin and headed for the door. "C'mon, I got an idea."

* * *

Daryl's idea turned out to be a pretty great one as far as Rick's intoxicated mind was concerned. As he lit the Molotov cocktail that Daryl made from a bottle of tequila, a wide grin spread across his face. There was something incredibly liberating about burning an entire house to the ground without any consequence.

Daryl had already doused the place with the rum he'd found and so it caught fairly quickly when Rick tossed the homemade bomb. He stood on the edge of the street, watching in awe as the flames spread and grew.

"We can do anything we want." The thought struck him rather suddenly and a strong sense of wonder came along with it.

"Just about," Daryl agreed, arms crossed as he stared at the fire. "Whataya think we should do next?"

Rick shrugged, not quite sure where to start. He didn't want to stay there though. He wanted to burn whatever was left of his old life along with that house and live like he was dying. After all, the chances of that were higher now than ever.

"Why don't we start with that car?" he suggested, glancing down the street at the few homes that were spread out there and swaying slightly on the spot.

"Ya gonna make it down the street without fallin'on your face?"

"If not you can catch me," Rick teased before he started walking.

"Yeah,_ that's_ gonna happen." Daryl scoffed at the idea, but even three sheets to the wind Rick noticed that the other man was walking a bit closer to him than usual.

* * *

It became apparent to Daryl almost instantly that drunk Rick was nothing like sober Rick. The first clue was that he laughed a hell of a lot more. As Daryl was hotwiring a station wagon (not exactly what he was hoping for, but he didn't really have many options) his companion was cackling in the passenger seat about how he was going to arrest him for GTA.

As Daryl settled into the passenger seat Rick flashed his cuffs at him and slurred, "You have the right to remain silent…"

"Sorry, Grimes, yer not really my type," he retorted, putting the car into drive and backing out of the driveway.

Rick snickered at that and laid his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. He dropped the cuffs into his lap and grinned. "M'not sure you've got any other options, Dixon."

"If you tell me whiskey makes ya gay I might kick you outta the car."

"Nah…guys don't really do it for me. Although that hard ass, redneck thing ya got goin' on is kinda attractive." Rick laughed some more, shaking his head and adding, "Man, why didn't I drink more before? Woulda made my whole fucked up marriage seem bearable."

"You won't be thinkin' that way when the hangover hits ya," Daryl reminded him. Rick was going to feel like hammered shit when he slept this off.

"Such a buzzkill."

Daryl was about to tell him to shut up and go to sleep, but he didn't get a chance to. When he looked over at Rick he was already passed out.

* * *

When Rick woke up it was to find the car pulled into an abandon barn and Daryl sitting on the hood smoking a cigarette. He had his crossbow at his side and Rick suspected from the low, orange light streaming through the barn doors that it was either early morning or dusk.

Either way he had a massive headache and as he sat up he groaned, burying his face in his hands.

"Mornin', Sheriff. How ya feelin'?" Daryl called, hopping off the hood and moving around to the passenger window.

"Like hell," Rick sighed, closing his eyes and laying his head back again.

"Yeah, I bet. Lucky for your drunk ass, I've got some pain killers." He pulled some ibuprofen from his pocket, giving Rick four of the small pills.

"Have you slept?"

"Nah, been up keepin' watch."

Rick frowned, sitting up and stretching as he said, "I'll drive. You sleep."

"You sure? Don't wanna wind up in a ditch 'cause you're too hung over to drive."

"Just shut up and move so I can get out." Rick pushed open the door, forcing Daryl back, and made his way around to the driver's side.

* * *

Driving with a hangover definitely wasn't Rick's idea of fun, but he didn't mind it too much. It kept his mind on something other than how shitty he felt and it made him feel better knowing Daryl was getting some sleep after keeping an eye out for him all night.

Of course he didn't sleep very long, which didn't surprise Rick much. They still didn't trust each other fully, although they both seemed pretty convinced that the chances of being randomly slaughtered by the other were slim.

Daryl woke after about an hour and a half of driving, rubbing his eyes and glancing around at their surroundings.

"How we doin' on gas?" he croaked before clearing his throat.

"Not so good. Think we got enough to get us to Peachtree City, so gettin' more or findin' another car shouldn't be too hard."

Daryl nodded and turned his gaze to Rick. "Peachtree's kinda big. Might run into some trouble there."

Rick noticed that he didn't sound too concerned about that; he was just pointing out the obvious.

"Good thing we've got a small armory in the backseat." Rick grinned at the man next to him, surprised by how relaxed he was at what could turn into a very dangerous situation.

* * *

They left the car as they made it into town, deciding they would be more discrete on foot. Considering there was only two of them they could slip through alleys and behind buildings fairly easily without drawing attention.

Daryl led the way, crossbow ready, and as they went they slipped into a few buildings to search for food. Things went much smoother than they'd expected them to and Daryl was feeling confident as they made it as far as the Braelinn Golf Club.

He came to a stop at the entrance, a mischievous smile spreading over his lips as he glanced at Rick. "You a golfer, Grimes?"

"Uh, definitely not," Rick replied, shooting Daryl a look of confusion. "You're not, are you?"

"Nah, but I dunno…could be fun if we do it right."

"And what exactly is the right way?"

Daryl chuckled, seeing that he had his companion intrigued now. "Watch and learn."

He pulled a bottle of rum from his bag and headed down the entry drive, confident than Rick would be right behind him.


	4. Dead End

Rick found out very quickly that Daryl's idea of the "right way to golf" was swigging rum from the bottle while goofing around in a golf cart. So far only a small bit of actual golfing had taken place. They reached the tenth whole within an hour and were both pretty buzzed by the time they got there.

Hopping out of the cart, bag of clubs thrown over his shoulder, Daryl announced, "We're gonna liven it up a bit this time."

"Whataya have in mind?" Rick wondered, following after the other man.

"Lay down."

Rick frowned at him. "Uh-uh. I know what you're thinkin' and I'm not gettin' my face smashed in 'cause you're drunk."

"M'not drunk," Daryl insisted. "And I'm a hunter—got good aim."

"Good aim or not, I'm not riskin' it."

"Oh, c'mon, Grimes. It's the end of the world. Stop bein' a pussy and have some fun." Daryl pulled a tee from his pocket and wiggled it suggestively at Rick. "I won't hit ya, I promise."

Rick really thought he was too old to be affected by peer pressure, but apparently he wasn't. He told himself it was the booze as he lay on his back, letting Daryl place the tee between his lips. If the other guy smacked him in the face with a golf club he was going to beat his ass.

He watched Daryl from the grass, cringing as he saw him preparing to swing. When the club finally started on its course toward his face he couldn't bring himself to close his eyes. He just stared at the blur of metal with wide eyes, his heart giving a wild thump as it connected with the ball that was only inches from his mouth.

It took a moment for him to realize that the small white ball was now sailing through the air and that his face was completely unharmed. However, once it clicked in his mind he got to his feet and watched the object disappear into the grass.

"Told you I wouldn't hit ya," Daryl chuckled, a smug grin on his face.

"Damn…too bad the world ended, you could make a shit ton of me with a swing like that."

Daryl shrugged and passed the rum to Rick. "Here. Take a good gulp of that—ya deserve it."

The deputy smiled and obeyed quite willingly, sucking down more of the amber liquid.

"Alright, it's my turn," he insisted, picking up his club and shooting Daryl a challenging stare.

"Yeah, I fuckin' knew you were crazy." The other man took back the bottle and headed over to the golf cart, climbing into the driver's seat.

"Now how is that fair?" Rick hollered after him, his feigned anger spoiled by his smile. He walked over to the cart, moving to get inside, but before he could Daryl stomped on the pedal and took off.

"See ya at the next hole, Sheriff!" he called over his shoulder before taking a swig of the rum.

* * *

As much fun as it was to watch Rick chase him down, stumbling in his intoxicated state, Daryl wasn't quite that much of an asshole. He stopped long before the eleventh hole, letting his companion catch up to him.

By the time the eighteenth hole came around they were as drunk as they could get without falling on their faces. Not that they bothered to get up and find that out. Instead they sat in the cart and stared out at the rolling hills of the golf course, watching silently as the occasional walker shuffled past in the distance.

"It's strange…havin' so much time on my hands," Rick mused, fingering the handle of a club.

"Got nothin' but time," Daryl agreed, leaning back and throwing an arm across the back of the seat. He picked up the bottle, frowning when he found it empty and chucking it out into the grass.

"Guess it's kinda nice havin' someone to waste it with."

Daryl simply nodded at that, not entirely sure how he felt on that matter. Sure, it was better than fucking around on a golf course alone, but he didn't want to be responsible for Rick. He was already starting to feel like he was—like he had to keep him alive—thanks to the incident at the house. He'd felt responsible for his brother, too, but that hadn't turned out so good.

"S'dangerous…wastin' time with people," he sighed, his mind roaming back to the second week he'd spent on the road.

"Yeah…you, uh…said you lost family, too. Who'd you lose?" Rick glanced over at him, the look on his face saying that Daryl didn't have to disclose that information if he didn't want to.

He didn't mind though. He wasn't entirely sure what it was about Rick, but he felt at ease around him for the most part. He wouldn't let himself fall into a false sense of trust, not when they barely knew each other, but he could at least tell him about Merle.

"My brother. I lost my brother, Merle," he replied, grimacing at a dismembered walker that was lying next to an abandon golf cart, its one arm struggling in an attempt to pull it's rotted body across the grass. Didn't seem like it was having much success. "He got a pretty nasty scratch when we were in Atlanta. Took a machete and his shotgun into a horde with him, said he was gonna take as many of the bastards down with as he could before he turned. I told him we could try amputatin' the hand, but he just told me to get myself out and took off."

He shuddered, remembering how dead and determined Merle's eyes had been. Yes, they probably could've saved him, but Daryl was pretty sure he didn't want to be saved.

"M'sorry, man," Rick sighed heavily, laying his head back against the seat.

"Ain't a big deal…s'not like we were close. Guy was an ass, but…he was my brother, ya know?" He sat up, trying to decide on a new subject. He didn't like talking about himself. "What about you? Just your kid, or…?"

"My wife, too."

"Damn…" Daryl chewed at his lip for a moment, glancing at Rick and seeing that cold, lifeless stare returning to him. He quickly started the golf cart back up, grabbing the wheel and suggesting, "Whataya say we go take out some walkers? Ten points if you take 'em down with a club while we're movin'."

Rick's stoic demeanor faded at that, giving way to an enthusiastic grin. "Let's do it."

* * *

The walker-bashing, as fun as it was, was cut short as they got about half way back to the building. It seemed like they weren't the only ones who thought golf was a decent way to pass time, because there was a small group making their way on foot onto the course.

Daryl steered the cart towards the tree line while Rick kept a close eye on the people slowly heading in their direction.

"Looks like three men and two women," he informed Daryl, his voice grim. "Heavily armed. We might be better off just bailin' into the woods."

"Ya might be right…ain't no tellin' if they're gonna try stealin' our supplies."

They made it to the trees and hopped out of the cart, throwing their bags over their shoulders. Rick kept the club in his hand, prepared to use it if necessary. They never knew what they might run into out in the woods and Rick didn't want to use his gun unless he had to.

However, they barely made into the cover of the trees before he realized he just might have to.

"Well, hello there," greeted the curvaceous blonde woman that stood a few yards from them. She had a shotgun in her hands and a tentative, but friendly smile on her face. There was a stern-looking Hispanic man at her side, sizing up Rick and Daryl and pointing his own gun in their direction.

Daryl raised his crossbow, eyeing the other survivors warily. "Who're you?"

"I'm Andrea. This is Martinez. And who're you?"

"My name's Rick and this is Daryl. Look, we're just trying to get outta here, we don't want any trouble," Rick insisted, glancing at the gun that Martinez had on Daryl.

"You drop that crossbow, I'll put down my gun," Martinez countered. "Then you're free to pass."

"Now, I dunno about that, Martinez. Whatcha think they got in those bags?"

Rick spun around to find the five other survivors they'd seen before standing there. The one that spoke didn't seem to be the leader—he stood towards the back, hand over the gun at his hip. There were two larger men towards the front. The largest, a man with massive shoulders and a scruffy, square face, had his gun on Rick.

"Adam, stop," one of the women insisted, frowning at the smaller man and shooting a look of sympathy in Rick and Daryl's direction. "We've got plenty for now—let them go."

"Dunno if I'm the only one who noticed, but these fellas smell like alcohol," Adam pointed out, completely disregarding the girl and stepping around to the front. "Got any more of that stashed away in there?"

"Don't see why that's any of your business," Daryl retorted, glancing over his shoulder at Adam. He kept the bow on Martinez and Andrea.

"It's _not_. Adam, knock it off," the small, blonde women persisted, reaching for Adam's arm. As she gripped it though he yanked it swiftly away, turning and sending his hand flying across the side of her face.

"Keep your fuckin' hands to yourself!" he spat, glaring at her as she placed a hand over her reddened cheek and scowled back at him.

Rick couldn't help the white-hot, consuming rage that roiled inside of him, but he kept it under control. Just barely.

However, Daryl didn't seem to have the same self-restraint. Before Rick could even get one hand on him he was charging forward, bow forgotten as he gripped the smaller man by the front of his shirt and slamming his fist into his jaw.

There was a loud crack, but Daryl didn't seem to notice or care. One hit didn't seem to be enough for him. Within seconds he had the man on the ground and was beating the living hell out of him.

Rick snapped into his deputy mindset a little too late, moving forward just as the square-faced man put his gun to the back of Daryl's head.

"Get the fuck off my little brother or I'll shoot."


End file.
